


Thawing

by TheLocket



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, F/M, Interrogation, M/M, S&M, Sexual Violence, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-14 01:13:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1247182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLocket/pseuds/TheLocket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers had been tortured, but never like this. Everyone warned him that this mission to go after Bucky Barnes would not end well. And from the moment that the enemy forces tightened the handcuffs around his wrists, he knew that he was in for trouble. But he never realized who they would send in to extract every ounce of information, from the details of the super-soldier-serum to his access code for the SHIELD mainframe. Inspired by the beautiful artwork of stereowire.</p><p>(S&M, violence, and slash. Spoilers for Cap 2 premise.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Оттепель](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3786190) by [rubyrummy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubyrummy/pseuds/rubyrummy)
  * Inspired by [and maybe i’m too blind to see, the line was always crossed in me](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/38191) by stereowire. 



"I want you to beg, Rogers," Bucky growled. He let the bare edge of his knife kiss Steve's neck, a half grin tugging lazily at his lips.

"Buck..." Steve couldn't even form the words. He slurred, his face falling forward towards Bucky. Barnes grabbed his hair, the nape of his neck, dragging Steve upright.

"Who the hell is Bucky," he snarled, his composure shattered. "Stop calling me that!"

He took a moment to compose himself, and then slowly growled in frustration.

Steve, on his knees, saw at eye level the manifestation of Bucky's problem. He always did enjoy proving himself the bigger man.

"Buck-y," he choked out, the pain in his back a dull burning sensation. He tensed his muscles, trying not to remember the pleasure of it all, of Bucky's hand fisting a clump of his hair roughly, holding him down on his knees with inhuman strength. As he writhed beneath Bucky's hand, he reopened the new cuts tracing a star in the back of his bare torso. A red star, marking him as Bucky's property. He shivered at the idea.

Bucky grinned again, his breath hitching. Bucky was straining against those pants and, in holding up Steve's head, he was forcing him to look at it. Steve's face was a tantalising handswidth away.

With his arms wrapped behind him, though, Steve couldn't do anything — so he gave in to it.

"Let me..." he whimpered, leaning forward. "Please, Buck."

The grip on his hair tightened and Steve couldn't help but moan in response.

"What are you suggesting," he snarled, and the blade at Steve's neck pressed, a sharp jolt.

"Please, just let me..." he murmured. He was trembling at the idea. It had been so long — he had missed Bucky, missed everything about him, missed those nights pressed hot against him, bare skin on bare skin, the panting and straining and then those moments of bliss. Bucky told him what to do, and Steve loved to obey.

Clouded by memory, he leaned forward, opening his mouth, and stupidly, clouded by the pain and pleasure, closed his eyes and searched with his lips and tongue through the fabric.

He knew that he would be punished for this – so he wasn't surprised to feel a flash of pain across his face. On his knees, he lolled back at the slap, almost losing his balance but for the hand anchoring his scalp. At least Bucky had used his real arm, backhanding him. He tasted blood and licked his lips.

"I tell you what to do," Bucky growled. "I have the knife."

"Yes, yessir, sorry," Steve whined. The old Bucky — he would have respected Steve's needs. He would have known just how far to push him to make it worth it in the end. Steve knew to trust him, to respect him. They moved with predictable perfection, synchronicity.

But this Bucky — this "Winter Soldier" — he was an unknown variable. Steve didn't know what to expect. And somehow, that was intoxicating, the danger of it only making him want it more. His body hummed with desire, burning along his veins.

He tried to be good, he tried to wait, but this new version of his friend had inhuman patience. And it had been so, so long.

"Please," Steve whined. He felt a cool touch at his back, at the lines carved there meticulously. Bucky was stroking his back with the edges of his metal fingers. Steve trembled. He knew what those fingers could do.

And suddenly they were back at his head. He felt them burying into his scalp, gripping onto his hair.

"You'll do as you're told," Bucky said, his voice clipped and professional. He could have been giving orders to troops.

Steve moaned and bucked, his hips instinctively jerking in response to that tone. That tone. His eyes all but rolled backwards into his skull.

"Rogers," Bucky snapped. "Am I clear."

"Yes, yes sir," he whimpered. "Please."

A pause. The most infuriating pause that Steve dug his teeth into his front lip, clenching his jaw. Restraint, restraint after seventy years of wanting just this.

"Alright," Bucky said finally.

Steve heard the tantalizing noise of a zipper and saw a flurry of clothing as the standing man threw open his fly and shifted. Steve leaned forward eagerly, doing as he was told.

After a few moments, he glanced up to see how his progress was registering. He fingers tightened at his scalp and he saw Bucky's lips draw back in a grimace, containing his pleasure.

But Steve wanted to shatter his composure, he wanted to do as he was told and more, to work harder — and so he focused on the task, on his command, trying to complement Bucky's thrusts.

"Faster," Bucky commanded, his voice a bit strained, and Steve hurried to comply. The growling edge had returned to Bucky's voice, and Steve looked up to see his eyes half-closed and a grin tugging at his lips.

"Good," Bucky said. "Good work."

The hands at Steve's scalp tightened, almost painfully, pulling at the hair there. And then the fingers pressed, shoving his head roughly forward and backward at an unsteady rhythm.

He couldn't distract himself with the feeling building in his own body but focused on Bucky's, Bucky first — and by the soft noises escaping Bucky's lips, he knew it wouldn't be long. His breathing was laboring now.

A pinch at his neck: the knife there was shaking as Bucky trembled, a movement intensified as he lost control, gasping and withdrawing suddenly.

Abruptly, Steve's vision clouded and he stumbled forward, searching with his hands for Bucky, but the other man was gone, back a few paces against the far side of the room, his metal arm seeking along the interrogation room wall to hold him upright.

At first Steve wasn't sure why black spots were swimming before his eyes. He could feel the hot, sticky wave of his own blood pouring out of his neck. As he pitched forward into the blackness, he could hear the noise of Bucky rezipping his pants.

"Shit, Rogers?" he heard Bucky ask.

At his throat he felt a hand, pressing to the nick at the vein there.

"Fuck," Bucky breathed. "I—I—c'mon, don't..."

"Fine," Steve wheezed. "I'm fine."

As the blackness withdrew, Steve saw only Bucky's face, both hands clutching his neck. An ironic voice in the back of his head laughed at the deja vu.

"Super-soldier-serum," he choked out: already, he could feel the wound healing.

"Thank God," Bucky muttered. "For a moment... I forgot my strength... and... you just seemed so... _breakable_."

Steve looked up, shocked to see that same Bucky, the same look of over-protectiveness, the same strong hands tightening around his neck.

The moment, though, was shattered.

"James, report."

The crackling voice came over the interrogation room intercom and Bucky swore, standing.

"No new intelligence," he replied, straightening and stepping away from Steve.

There was a pause.

"Interesting interrogation technique," the voice responded coldly. Even Steve, half-unconscious on the floor, caught the acerbic tinge coloring the disembodied voice.

As he looked up, he could have sworn that Bucky reddened.

"Please make sure to use only Hydra- _sanctioned_ techniques in the future, James. That will be all."

The voice disconnected and Bucky sighed to himself.

"Back in the chair," Bucky grunted, lifting Steve back to the silver chair, his arms still locked behind him.

"Fuck," Steve breathed, glancing down. Even with the blood loss, his situation was still glaringly-obvious to everyone.

Bucky followed his look — which didn't help the matter much.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I wouldn't usually..."

He even looked a bit embarrassed to leave Steve in such a situation.

"It's alright," Steve replied, shuddering a bit. "I've had seventy years of practice with sexual frustration."

But looking at Bucky's slightly-abashed face wasn't helping.

"... but would you mind going back to torturing me?" he asked, a bit breathless.

"I thought I was..." Bucky said with a shy laugh.

Steve cleared his throat.

"I can't tell you anything about SHIELD, Buck..."

"James," he corrected immediately.

Steve shook his head sadly, trying to wipe the insipid grin off his face.

"I can't, James," he repeated.

"C'mon," Bucky breathed, sitting across from him and leaning across the table, his posture open and inviting. Damn, was he good.

"I can't," Steve repeated.

"How's your neck?" Bucky asked.

Steve twisted his head to give him a better view.

"Feels mostly healed," he replied.

Bucky stood, wet his finger, and dragged it along the bare skin there. With his finger now smudged with blood, he returned his hand to his lips and repeated the process.

"That really is torture, huh?" Steve muttered, struggling to get the breath back in his lungs.

"Just getting you cleaned up. My CO gets really upset when I bring back prisoners from interrogation covered in blood."

"Wouldn't want you to get in trouble," Steve replied, trying to keep his voice steady. But his voice shot up an octave as Bucky pressed his lips to the base of his neck.

"Mmm," Bucky said by way of response into Steve's shoulder. His lips pressed there, the scruff brushing against the warmth of his skin.

Steve felt every muscle tense at Bucky's rough chin dragging against his collarbone.

"You really did so well," Bucky breathed. "It would be wrong to not thank you."

"It's fine," Steve choked out. "Really."

Bucky's tongue continued it's exploration of every plane of his bare skin, his lips trailing up his hairline to the exposed skin of his ear.

Steve shuddered a bit in his chair, his body bucking in wild waves.

"Let me thank you," Bucky breathed, sliding his bare hand up Steve's thigh.

"I can't tell you anything," Steve repeated, clinging to each word. "I can't."

The lips at his ear were replaced by teeth, nipping at his skin.

"Let me thank you, Rogers," Bucky breathed.

"You're going to get in trouble," Steve said, his breath coming quicker now as Bucky's hand snaked its way below his belt.

"Get in trouble?" he repeated.

"Yes — yes..." Steve stammered. "Lots of trouble."

Bucky leaned forward, his face barely inches from Steve's.

"I think I'm already in trouble," he replied.

And before Steve could say another word, he pressed his lips towards Steve's, where they savagely pressed, the scruff of his unshaved chin scraping across Steve — all the while, his hand never ceasing in its rhythm.

"Are you in trouble now, Steve?" Bucky breathed as he drew back to regard Steve seriously.

"Mhmm," Steve whimpered.

"You're mine now," Bucky replied, tracing a hot line across Steve's temple with his tongue.

"Yours, yes, yours," Steve stuttered. He shuddered, gripping the back of the metal chair with his fingers in an effort to root himself, but the metal distorted easily under his superhuman strenght.

"C'mon Steve," Bucky breathed. "Please, Steve. Please."

At his name whispered by that voice so close against his face, Steve couldn't hold on much longer, and they both knew it.

"The codes, Steve," Bucky breathed. "Access code, please. Steve. Please. I want to thank you. Let me thank you."

Steve gritted his teeth and he felt Bucky slow.

"Please," Bucky murmured, slowing to an infuriatingly leisurely rhythm. "Just the first digit."

And as Steve watched, Bucky withdrew his hand and slowly licked his palm. Then, with careful precision, he returned his hand and began again, faster this time, accelerating to a superhuman rate.

"Uh—" Steve choked out.

"Yeah?" Bucky cut in, pressing his lips to Steve's temple. His voice was urgent as he continued: "C'mon, say it, please. Please say it."

And Steve couldn't. He couldn't, not anymore, he needed this. Just the first digit. He deserved this after seventy years of waiting. And that feeling, he knew it would slip away if he didn't give in to Bucky's demands.

"Alpha." The word was out of his lips before he could stop himself.

Bucky made it worth it, so worth it that Steve couldn't stay quiet and suddenly it wasn't just the first digit he was yelling.

He felt Bucky's teeth once more press lightly to his ear.

"Good work, Rogers."


	2. On Ice

Bucky sighed, wiping his palm across the shoulder of Steve's open shirt, taking a moment to regard the mess on his hand with disgust.

This completed, he flipped open an out-dated com and punched in a few numbers.

As he dialed he regarded Steve with cold eyes until someone picked up.

"Passcode," a cool female voice said on the other end.

"Alpha 6 3 Romeo 9," he said calmly as Steve still tried to catch his breath. "Shh," Bucky said, placing a hand over his gasping mouth to silence the heavy breathing.

In defiance Steve struggled against the handcuffs that held his arms behind his back. It was stupid to try, but through the fog in his brain he was slowly comprehending what Bucky was doing. His struggle, however, was in vain; his muffled roar was only hot air against Bucky's palm.

"Rogers," Bucky laughed, smirking. "Please. I'm on the phone."

"Captain Rogers passcode confirmed," the voice on the phone said.

Bucky grinned and snapped the phone shut. 

"Well look at that," he cooed. "So you are good for something."

He leaned over the interrogation room table to plant a kiss on Steve — who, shackled as he was, couldn't turn his face away in time. The rough brush across his lips was anything but sensual; Steve shuddered at the touch.

The other man pulled back and stood above him, looking down at him. A cold smile twisted his face into something entirely unattractive, and without warning he backhanded Steve against the face, sending him lurching towards the floor. Steve landed, face-first. For a moment he fought to stand, to right himself, but he only managed to flop around on the floor like a fish out of water.

While he struggled on the floor, the salty-rust taste of blood warm on his lips, Bucky leaned casually against the intercom on the side of the interrogation room.

"We're done here. Send transport to bring Prisoner 057 back to his cell," he said lazily. The cold smile flash across his face as he looked down at the figure sprawled across the floor. "And no need to hurry."

As Steve lay there, face pressing into the cold linoleum, his nose beginning to bleed. He froze, trying to listen for any hint of Bucky, any comment that would show that his friend was somewhere inside the cold exterior.

After a moment of silence, punctuated by his own labored breathing and pounding heart, he heard the door open and the noise of Bucky's loud footsteps as he swaggered out of the room.

Mentally cursing himself, Steve shuddered into the unforgiving floor, trying not the choke on the stream of blood pouring down his throat.

When the team of Hydra agents arrived what felt like ages later to drag him back to his cell, he didn't struggle. He stumbled along. They didn't speak and they didn't try to clean him up. They just threw him back into the dark room, locking the door behind him.

Even though he had only been there for two days, the room seemed too familiar, in a way that set his teeth on edge.

To make matters worse, he hadn't even lasted through his first interrogation bout. In frustration, he began cursing himself, quiet at first and then louder and louder until it echoed, his own voice bouncing back at him, filling the small room.

"At least you got to third base," a voice called, interrupting him. He looked up, into the darkness. A stupid reaction: he couldn't see anything. But the voice, even through the wall of the prison cell, was familiar.

"Agent Romanov?"

"I told you not to go after him, Rogers," she replied. He could all but hear her rolling her eyes.

He swallowed, searching for the words.

"I-I'm sorry."

"Save your breath, Captain. They'll be plenty of time when all this is over for apologies," she said. "That way, they can involve vodka."

Steve couldn't help but laugh at that. But the noise sounded wrong in his cell; it came out as a hollow echo. He coughed a bit, still tasting blood. Less, though — his injuries were healing.

"I didn't mean to involve you in all this," he muttered.

"You know, you have to be careful with that chivalry," she replied. "You wouldn't want to imply that a woman can't take care of herself."

He heard a clattering noise and smiled ruefully to himself — he should have known that no handcuffs could hold Natasha Romanov.

"You're leaving?" he asked.

"They're planning to move me tomorrow, if not sooner," Natasha continued. "During transport... I'm sure I can find a way to find the exit..."

Steve heard her sigh as he audibly reset his jaw, the joint cracking.

"It was stupid of you to let them catch you," she added.

"I thought I could save him," Steve muttered.

"You can't save everyone, Captain."

Silence. He leaned against the wall, trying to get comfortable with his arms still cuffed behind him. With a bit of contortion and stepping over his hands he was able to get them at least in front of him. It was marginally more comfortable; he felt a rush of blood to the muscles in his shoulders.

He could hear her fiddling with something in the wall; it sounded like piping.

"I assume your passcode has been compromised," Natasha added. "I'll have Fury blacklist it."

"Thanks."

"And Steve? I'll be back with Wilson tomorrow," she added, her voice growing serious: "And you'll be leaving with us."

It didn't sound like an offer; it sounded like an order.

In the blackness, Steve drew a deep breath.

"Promise me you'll come, Steve," she said evenly.

After a long grueling session with the Winter Soldier, Steve could tell when he was being manipulated.

So he gritted his teeth and held his ground.

"I will. And Bucky's coming with us."

In the other cell, a loud clatter: Natasha dropped whatever instrument she had been using to fiddle with her prison cell.

"Bucky's dead, Steve," she said slowly. "He died back in Switzerland and what's left of him is just another Hydra operative wearing your friend's skin."

"He's still in there," Steve replied. He wasn't sure if he was trying to convince Natasha or himself. "Part of him is still in there. And he's coming with us."

"Fury's not going to like this..." she muttered.

"Well technically, he's dead," Steve muttered. "So we don't really have to listen to him."

"Yeah, try telling him that," Natasha replied. "Ever since he went dark, he's been a total pain in the ass. Without a squad of SHIELD agents to boss around, he can only take out his issues on me and Wilson. And you've been running around after you boyfriend..."

Steve laughed to himself.

"He's not my boyfriend."

"What, you didn't have that talk before you sucked his dick?" she asked sarcastically. "I thought you would be the type of guy to exchange promise rings before letting him bed you..."

Steve laughed a bit to himself.

"Already have a man on the inside...?"

"I'm particularly good at navigating air shafts," she replied, and he could almost see the smirk. "And it was well-worth the effort. Even with just the audio... it was quite a show."

***

"Your little redheaded friend is gone," the man purred, fiddling with the instruments on the interrogation room table. He spoke with an accent that Steve struggle to place — it sounded almost British, or Australian. 

"And," he continued, "even though you were so accommodating yesterday, it seems your codes aren't quite working today."

Steve closed his eyes and tried not to be obvious as he thanked every religious deity he could think of for the existence of Natasha Romanov.

The man interrogating him sighed and suddenly Steve recognized the origin of the accent: South Africa. It matched his blonde hair, cut short to hide that his hairline was receding, all complimenting the weathered look of his pock-marked face.

He tried to focus on the interesting topography of the man's face instead of the searing pain still thrumming through his body, a low thrum of agony that made it hard to concentrate and kept his vision just a little blurry.

"It's amazing what the body can do," the man murmured, reaching out to touch Steve's forearm. From the sharp pain there, Steve could tell it was broken, probably is several places.

"I know you can't appreciate it," the man continued, "but it's just normal household currency. Around 110 volts. I don't know why James was so intent on hurting you, since you're doing such a great job of it on your own."

The man pressed the two cables to Steve's shoulder and he tried not to yell out at the energy surged through his body once more. But he couldn't stay still, not with the 110 volts coursing through his body. He felt his muscles shuddering and then heard the bone crack before he felt it.

"Fascinating," the man murmured. "Fascinating."

Steve clenched his teeth as the man deliberately sat across from him, taking his time to sit slowly, smiling to himself.

"Oh, I know you aren't going to tell me anything," the man said. "After all, it is rather hard to speak with this amount of energy going through your body. Perhaps you've realized I'm not asking questions."

At a knock at the door, the man rose slowly, rolling the cuffs of his button-up shirt to his elbows.

"I was merely passing the time until..."

The door opened and the man welcomed in a group of figures, each carrying large items between them. Two were faceless Hydra operatives; the third, Steve recognized.

"Ah, James, come in, come in," the man said. His voice was warm but his face remained still as though made of stone.

The two Hydra agents threw down a large metal vat.

"Get him in," the man said calmly, and they lifted Steve from his chair and began shackling him to handcuffs in the bottom corners of the metal tub.

"His left arm is broken," the original man informed them. Steve felt an agonizing pinch: they closed the left handcuff with extra vigor. Then both his ankles, with less ceremony, until he was spread out along the length of the tub.

"James would you like to do the honors?" the man asked quietly.

Without a word, Bucky stepped forward and began unloading the large black bag he was carrying. Plastic bag after plastic bag of ice. Steve felt a pit form in his stomach as though he had missed a stair.

"Go ahead," the man said, waving his hand nonchalantly. His face impassive, Bucky tore open a bag of ice with his dagger and poured it into the tub.

"You see," the man said, "This is more of an effective mode of torture. I've never been a fan of the messy stuff. Blood is just so difficult to get out of silk..."

He trailed off, regarding Steve as he was submerged by another bag of ice.

He was beginning to feel cold now, the type of cold that had him audibly trembling as his handcuffs rattled against the metal of the tub. His breath rose in steam.

"I'm not sure if Dr. Erskine told you," the man continued, "but the serum changed your core temperature. So..."

He lifted a single ice cube to Steve's face and watched as it melted, trailing icy water down his face, pouring into his eyes and streamy ice rivulets down his cheeks.

"Fascinating. Simply fascinating." He paused, and reached into the tub to pull out Steve's left hand. "Of course, I wonder what the repercussions are. Shall we see?"

Steve closed his eyes, but he could still hear the man reaching behind him on the table for a metal instrument.

"Now," the man said a bit sharply, rapping him on the head with the bolt cutters. "Please pay attention. This experience can only be repeated a finite number of times, and unfortunately our sample size is quite small."

He smiled coldly at Steve and spread Steve's hand. His fingers were so cold he couldn't feel it.

"Trial one," the man said calmly, and Steve watched in horror as he simply and easily cut off his pinky finger.

It didn't hurt — Steve was sure that was the worst part, that he was so cold that he couldn't feel it — until he realized it wasn't healing.

"Fascinating," the man repeated.

He stepped away from Steve, holding the separated digit before his eyes and twirling it to get all angles, as though it were a museum piece on display.

"Please proceed, James," he said, taking a seat back at the table.

Bucky strode over and silently placed a hand to Steve's chest.

"I hope you are enjoying the irony, Captain Rogers," the man said, his voice distant. "Your own core temperature is accelerating the melting of the ice. Which means that you will soon be submerged. That is to say, the very thing that's been keeping you alive all these years is precisely the thing that's killing you right now. Slowly. Inexorably."

Steve could feel the shudders subsiding in his body. That meant one thing: hypothermia.

"Now," the man said calmly. "We're not going to kill you, because you're doing a great job of that on your own. In about five hours you will be dead... well, with a little help from James here. He's made sure we don't run out of ice."

The man smiled coldly, his hands moving absent-mindedly to stroke the finger almost lovingly.

"But before you kill yourself, I'd like you to tell me what's in your file. Everything, Steven."

He smiled coldly.

Bucky opened and emptied another bag of ice into the vat.

"I'm going to go watch from the deck," the man said to James. "It's getting a bit nippy in here, don't you think?"

He strode out.

"Buck..." Steve muttered, staring up at his friend's impassive face.

"My name is James," the man replied. And with that, his hand pushed on Steve's chest until he felt the icy water close around his cheeks, then his lips, and finally his nose.

You won't be alone. Peggy's voice echoed through the water, and Steve stared up at the face of his old best friend, frozen in a look of calm indifference as he slowly drowned him.

The cold crept along his body, numbing and burning as it moved until he felt frozen, unable to move as if his own body turned to ice around him. Cold, as cold as he'd ever felt and he could hear Peggy's words echoing back to him.

So cold. Cold until he was sure that he was frozen. The last of the air in his lungs was gone, but he didn't care. He couldn't even try to struggle. His arms were shackled and his body was frozen and his best friend was staring down at him with a look of icy indifference. I'm so cold, he thought, as his vision tunneled and he gave in to the blackness.


	3. Freedom & Domesticity

The next thing Steve knew was that his lungs were burning. For a moment he didn't know where he was. He couldn't feel anything, not his extremities or his face or his heartbeat. Just the burning in his lungs.

Gradually, it all returned: his vision, out of focus at first, placed him in the interrogation room. He became aware that he couldn't move. No, that wasn't quite right. His lungs: they were on the one thing that could move. And they were trying so hard, retching, sputtering out the water. Each breath ripped along his lungs like another cut, as if he were breathing in daggers.

As he struggled to breathe, the metal hand lifting him topside withdrew and he saw Bucky's form disappear as the man bent over. He returned to view, hoisting another bag of ice.

"If there's something you'd like to say, now would be a good time," Bucky said, his voice clinical.

"You're enjoying this," Steve rasped out, coughing as he spoke. "I know you, you are."

A thin-lipped smile ghosted across Bucky's face. He set aside the bag of ice and took a leisurely glance down his whole body.

"I suppose it's obvious," he replied, smirking again. "I'll have to do something about that."

"Maybe a cold shower," Steve suggested, wincing as the words cut into his throat with a real, tangible feeling.

"Are you asking me to join you?" Bucky replied, raising an eyebrow. "I think there's only room for one in your luxurious accommodations."

Steve didn't have an answer for that.

As Bucky lifted the ice bag, he took a breath to speak.

"Wait," he said. "I... can you tell me?"

"Tell you what?" he snapped, his patience gone. He longed to continue his work, Steve knew that.

"When the five hours is up," Steve replied, his teeth chattering.

Bucky looked annoyed.

"Muller wasn't serious about that," he replied. But something in the way he hesitated Steve knew he didn't entirely believe what he was saying.

"All the same," Steve replied, "you owe me that."

"I owe you nothing," Bucky growled.

"Please," Steve said, regretting the word as soon as it left his lips. "Please, give me this last dignity."

"Saving some last words? Because they better not be a confession of love or something like that." Bucky even sounded disgusted and Steve could imagine his lip curling from the tone. In a way, that hurt, more than his finger as the feeling returned and he saw the tinges of red unfurling in the melting ice water.

"Something like that," Steve murmured, leaning his head back against the metal of the tub. He closed his eyes and tried to remain calm as the ice came crashing in around him and the memories flooded behind his closed lids. It was almost a reprieve when Bucky shoved him under the water again and he blacked out.

***

When he awoke, the fire in his lungs was the same, but something else was completely different.

He was no longer chained and he almost felt dry. This was a lovely sensation. He focused on it, unsure of how long it would last for.

As his lungs convulsed, he became aware that he was no longer shackled — as his whole body fought to rid itself of the cold water, his limbs jerking as his whole being struggled.

"Jeez, calm down," he heard Bucky say, the metal arm forcing him back to a lying position.

After a moment of heaving, he was able to relax, exhausted by the effort.

"Where's my shirt?" he asked, foggily. A moment of surveying his body he added: "And my pants?"

"You were freezing to death," Bucky snapped.

Steve looked up and felt his face flush with a welcome flood of heat.

"Where's your shirt?" he asked.

"Can you please think of something else?" Bucky growled. "You need that blood somewhere else. Like your extremities. Your fingers are turning blue."

Even as he tried to comply, Steve realized he couldn't, and it wasn't just the Winter Soldier's strangely sculpted body that had every inch of his skin humming.

"You saved me," he realized dimly. "I knew you would save me."

Bucky snorted.

"You knew?" he mocked, still continuing to towel Steve off with his shirt. This completed, he pressed Steve's two hands together in his one good one. "Like when you were asking for your last rites?"

"Jerk," Steve murmured, feeling warm and sleepy all of a sudden.

After a moment a thought occurred to him and his eyes snapped open.

"What—" He held his left hand before his eyes.

"Oh yeah... I sort of... put it back on," Bucky said.

"That worked?"

"I guess."

They both looked at each other, a strangely charged glance.

"Feeling warmer?" Bucky asked abruptly, breaking the silence.

"A bit..." Steve allowed. He could feel Bucky's eyes sliding over him, appraising, and he wondered if his nakedness was effecting him at all.

After a moment, Bucky took his shirt and continued dabbing at Steve's chest, wiping quickly at first and then more slowly. As the shirt moved lower, Steve began to wonder if he had really died and this was some strange Heaven.

He opened his eyes abruptly to a loud crash and saw that Bucky was on top of him, straddling him on his knees. Both the hands — including the metal one — pressed to his collarbone.

"We need to warm you up," Bucky replied, his voice even and controlled. "And when you are at a functioning temperature, I'm getting that information out of you."

Steve looked at him, returning the cold glance. He was feeling more alert every second, and more in control now that he wasn't so shocked to be back in his old lover's embrace.

"Alright," he said, after a moment.

Bucky moved as if all this were new to him, slowly leaning forward. He seemed to measure and consider each movement, each distance. Not for Steve's benefit — their eyes never met — but as if for his own.

Finally he pressed his mouth to Steve's, his warm lips bringing heat and feeling back to Steve's face in a way so jarring and sudden that Steve couldn't decide if it was more pain or pleasure that made him respond, gripping Bucky's hair in his fist and returning the deep, slow kiss.

He heard the door slam open but didn't want to stop, fighting to pull Bucky closer still.

But Bucky was having none of it. He looked up, and Steve watched as his face contorted into a mask of rage.

"What—" Bucky sputtered out.

"Oh, for God's sake..." Steve heard Natasha mutter as she pressed her wrist tasers to Bucky, who quickly slumped over, unconscious.

Smiling at Steve, she easily hefted the body over to a standing position, where she began to drag him towards the door.

"Put some pants on, Rogers," she called back. "Some people may not want to see your stars and stripes..."

***

Hauling an unconscious Bucky onto the SHIELD jet was weirdly familiar, too — although Steve always remembered it the other way around.

"Did you have to eletrocute him?" Steve complained.

"Did you have to take out all those agents on your way out?" griped Natasha in response. Steve felt his hands grip into fists unconsciously, especially that newly-attached finger. She took that as a response.

"All set?" came Sam Wilson's voice from the pilot's seat.

"Get us out of here," Natasha replied.

"Yes ma'am," the Falcon said cheerfully, maneuvering the jet for a vertical take-off. "Alright, Cap?" he called as they whisked over the compound.

"Been better," Steve replied darkly, sliding into the co-pilot's seat. He glanced back to see Natasha affixing their new prisoner to the side of the aircraft with zip-ties. "Is that really necessary?"

She shrugged.

"I'm sure glad to see you again," Sam continued, ginning broadly as he flicked at the controls. The jet dipped through a cloud, surging upwards like a rollercoaster.

"I thought you knew how to fly," Steve complained, almost feeling a bit nauseous at the erratic movement of the plane. Behind him, a still out-cold Bucky flopped around a bit. As always, though, Natasha was fine.

"I said I knew how to fly," Sam said with another smile, "but I never said I was a pilot."

Steve groaned and leaned back against the chair.

"Up, Wilson," Natasha ordered. "Steve's had a long day. I'm a better pilot."

Sam looked like a child who had just been told that Christmas was canceled.

"Alright," he said after a moment, standing to comply.

As soon as Natasha took the helm, the entire aircraft leveled out and Steve could breathe again.

"Probies," she griped. "I don't know why SHIELD bothers to take on new agents. Half the time they need babysitting."

"It's so you can boss us around," Sam called from his new perch in the back of the aircraft. "For the last week, Fury's been–"

Natasha cut him off with a vehement look.

"What?" Sam asked.

She flicked her eyes to their other passenger, who appeared to be as unconscious as ever.

"Stick to protocol," she said coldly.

No one spoke for the rest of the trip until they flipped on the reflection panels and stealthily touched down in a courtyard in the center of New York.

***

Steve padded into the living room, ruffling a towel through his still-damp hair. Even though he was fully dressed after his (very) warm shower, he still couldn't feel dry.

"Feeling better?" Natasha asked from where she was reclined, like a cat, across the couch. She was flipping through a magazine — Steve did a double take at the title, "Home and Garden." He wondered if she was just pretending to read for the benefit of their guest.

He flicked his eyes to Bucky who was still slumped over, apparently unconscious, tied to one of the wooden chairs from the kitchen.

"Better," he echoed, in response to the question. "Wilson out?"

"Back checking in with an old friend," she replied, meaning Fury. Steve nodded, and glanced quickly back, yet again, to his old friend.

Natasha followed his gaze.

"I'd appreciate if you could try to keep your hands off him for a few minutes," she asked dryly. "Although I realize you guys like to go at it like rabbits."

Steve reddened a bit as he poured himself a bowl of cornflakes.

"You know," he said wryly, "seventy years is a long time to go without..."

"You may have the World Record for longest dry spell," she mused, flipping a page in her magazine.

"Is that what they call it these days?" he retorted, poking at his dry cereal with a spoon. After a moment, he couldn't wait any longer to ask, "He awake?"

With his spoon he indicated the muss of tousled brown hair.

"Yeah," Natasha replied, her brow crinkling. "Has been for the last five minutes or so. не так ли?"

"вы закрыли свой шлюха рот," he growled.

"Should I be slapping him?" Steve asked. He never learned Russian, but he knew that tone.

"Well, I can't say it's the first time someone's called me that," Natasha murmured. "But if anyone's slapping on my behalf, it's me."

Steve gave her an arch look.

"My right hook is much better," she elaborated.

He didn't argue with that, but sat down to eat his cereal, crunching loudly.

"There's milk in the fridge," Natasha added.

Steve went to get some.

"Want some, Buck?" he asked.

"прекратить называть меня, что," Bucky snarled.

"He doesn't like you using that name," Natasha translated. And then to Bucky she added: "It's just stupid to speak in Russian. I'll translate everything you say."

"Может быть, вы помните свое место," Bucky replied.

"Zapomnit," Steve repeated, his accent atrocious. He knew that word: to remember. "Is he remembering?" he asked excitedly.

Natasha looked up from her magazine and her face almost looked sad.

"No, he isn't," she said, keeping her voice even. "By the way, can you run to the store? I think we're out of toilet paper."

"Some safe house, huh?" Steve mused. "A six-floor walk up in Manhattan? No doorman, one bed, badly stocked?"

"Better than Camden," she mused.

Steve sighed and stood up to leave.

"Be back in ten," he promised.

The second the door slammed shut, Natasha was at Bucky's throat with a silver blade she produced from somewhere secret on her person.

"Nice to see you again, Yasha," she growled.

"You as well, Talia," he replied, eyes sliding open into narrowed slits. She flinched at the name. 

"Been a while since someone called you that, huh?" he purred, leaning into the blade. "I'll tell him. Captain America. He won't be so keen on working with a Russian spy who still has the огонь на родине in her blood."

Natasha stroked at Bucky's stubble with her blade and it was so silent they could both hear the noise of it scraping there.

"Not that closest shave I've ever had," he said, raising an eyebrow.

Despite herself, Natasha couldn't help but bark out a laugh.

She pressed her lips roughly to his jawline.

"If you're thinking of old times," she purred in his ears, "don't. I'm not Natalia anymore, and you aren't Yasha."

"Well I'm sure as hell not this Bucky character," he retorted.

Natasha drew back, settling herself on his knees, straddling him.

"Doesn't matter," she replied, matter-of-fact. "Steve thinks you are." 

"But you know I'm not."

"Like I said," she said, sliding her hands up the inner muscle of his thighs so she could whisper into his ear, "Doesn't matter."

"Talia," he murmured, a hit of humor in his voice. "I haven't seen you this worked up since Prague. Did you miss me, or were you enjoying me torture your spangly friend?"

"If you think that was torture," she murmured back, trailing kisses on his jawline, "you really have gotten soft in these past few years. I may have to remind you what that word really means."

"And so the student becomes the master?" he asked, snickering a bit to himself.

In response she kissed him, full on the mouth, roughly pressing herself against him. He responded as best he could, tied to the chair, grinding against her.

"If we're going to do this, you should untie my hands," he panted.

"Sorry," she laughed, "Steve and I sort of have a bro-code. A non-compete, if you know what I mean."

"Pity. You two could do wonders if you worked together."

She backhanded him, roughly.

"You wish," she growled. And then she returned to kissing him, twining her hands in the back of his mane of hair. They were so involved in their passion that she didn't hear the sound of the door opening until there was a loud crash behind them.

"Natasha?"

Steve was standing by the open door, his hands empty as his sides, and two packages of toilet paper on the floor where he dropped them. His mouth had fallen open with shock.

She pulled back and easily stepped off Bucky's lap, looking unfazed.

"Interrogation," she replied. "Sorry, I got started while you were gone."

Steve looked from Bucky to Natasha, his eyes wide.

"That is not what Director Fury taught me at base..."

"Well, Director Fury really isn't my type," Bucky replied.

"Yeah, and he isn't nearly as flexible as me," Natasha said, deadpan.

Steve stood there, trying not to be obvious about how uncomfortable this made him feel in many different ways, not all of them bad.

"Oh, you got Scott?" she asked, nodding to the rolls of paper on the ground. "I prefer Charmin. Something about those bears, y'know?"

"Yeah," Steve replied hollowly, still staring at Bucky and a very obvious bulge in his clothing. She followed his gaze and then rolled her eyes.

"God, you are like a homing pigeon," Natasha muttered, heading back to the bedroom.

"What, are you next?" Bucky asked with a chilling smile. Perversely, he stretched out, spreading his thighs.

"I—I," Steve stuttered. He turned to look for an escape. "Natasha?"

He ran off to the bedroom, leaving a chuckling — and very aroused — Bucky to sit by himself.

"You could at least untie one of my hands," he griped. "This is just getting embarrassing."

***

They looked ridiculous: the three of them, at the kitchen table, Bucky still tied to the chair. Steve leaned over his place with a fork and knife to cut up a cutlet, a task he performed with careful precision.

"I've been trying to make contact with that friend of ours," Natasha continued, swirling her fork in her pasta without really eating any. "We may have to go in person. That's the only way Sam and I have been able to talk to him ever since he went dark."

"And any news from base?" Steve asked, glancing up from his work cutting up Bucky's dinner.

"SHIELD still can't be trusted, Steve," Natasha replied earnestly, or at least with a perfect performance of honesty. "We still don't know how they got to Fury."

Steve nodded and resumed his task, holding up a piece of food for their restrained prisoner.

"I don't like that piece," Bucky snarked as the fork neared his mouth.

Steve gave him a look of exasperation.

"Why not?" he asked.

When Bucky opened his mouth to respond, Steve shoved the chicken into his mouth.

Bucky chewed and swallowed, his eyes narrowed.

"You're a punk," he muttered when he could.

"Jerk," Steve replied, with a broad grin.

Bucky looked confused at the reaction.

"He does realize I insulted him, right?" he asked Natasha. "I always heard that 'roids could have side-effects but, man..."

"Eat your dinner, James," Natasha replied, returning to her smartphone.

Steve was still grinning.

"He's remembering," he cooed.

Bucky fidgeted in his chair, scowling a bit. Something did feel strange about those words, like they struck a chord, and punk was a weird word to use — he couldn't think of the last time he'd said it.

"Well," he said, trying to shake off that feeling, "if this 'Bucky' was always insulting you, maybe it's best if I'm not him."

"They did fuck too," Natasha piped up, now playing Candy Crush on her phone.

"Natasha," Steve objected.

"Well, we can still do that," Bucky allowed. "Just call me James when you come, okay?"

Steve gave him an even glance. The silence continued for a long moment, as Steve tried to see if his Bucky was somewhere in that face.

Bucky returned the look evenly, almost looking bored.

Finally the silence was broken:

"More chicken, please," Bucky said. "And not any of the edge pieces, okay?"

***

"It's inhumane," Bucky whined. "Just untie me."

Steve and Natasha traded a look.

"Fine," Natasha said. She stood, untied him, and then quickly — before he even had a chance to realize what was happening — handcuffed him.

The self-satisfied smirk melted off his face.

"Well this isn't going to work," he growled.

"I got it," Steve offered.

"Of course you do."

Steve marched him to the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

"It's not anything she hasn't already seen," Bucky said with a smile.

Steve glared at him and then locked the door.

"So you're the jealous type, huh?" he asked, as Steve stripped off his shirt and then his pants and boxers.

They were silent as Steve switched the shower on. And then Steve slowly began removing his own clothing.

"Guess you do get to take me up on that offer on showering together, huh?" Bucky asked.

"Just stop, okay?" Steve asked. He looked as if this were causing him physical pain, his whole face distorted. "I know what you're doing. I went through this too. It's easier to pretend it's all not real. To... to make jokes and little sarcastic comments."

He led Bucky into the shower and they stood there somewhat awkwardly, Bucky sputtering out mouthfuls of water. Never once did they break eye contact, in some sort of crazy staring contest.

"Keep focused on the task here, fruitcake," he said harshly. "I'm here to get clean, not dirty."

Steve glared at him, pouring some soap into the palms of his hands.

"I know you're in there, Buck," he continued, lathering up Bucky's neck and shoulders, his hands tracing down the curve of his chest and around his back. His hands didn't slow as they neared his hips and the arch of his lower back.

"And I'm not going to give up on you. I know you'd do the same for me. Just like in that Hydra base. I thought you were dead once and..."

Even though his voice broke, his hands never stopped their steady movement.

And then, with clinical precision, they continued downwards, down thigh and calf.

"Pick up your foot," he said simply, and Bucky complied, more out of surprise.

"So you do have self-control," he snarked. "I was beginning–"

Steve stood quickly and pressed a hand to his lips, stopping the sentiment.

"Don't," he said, staring intently into his face. "Just don't."

As he kneeled to clean Bucky's feet, something again struck a chord. It seemed familiar, Steve looking up at him.

"That's a good place for you," he mused.

Steve looked up at him, his blue eyes hopeful, and Bucky again felt something uncoil in the pit of his stomach. Looking down at Steve. It felt right.

He crushed the feeling: "You really are a bottom, huh?"

***

When both were clean, Steve helped Bucky into a clean pair of shorts and marched him into the bedroom.

"I'm gonna warn you, I snore," Bucky said, smirking.

"No you don't," Steve replied. "Anyway, I'm exhausted."

He unlatched one of the handcuffs and then connected it to the bedpost.

"This reminding you of old times?" Bucky asked, licking his lips.

"No," Steve said simply. "I was generally the one in your position."

He flopped down onto the bed as Bucky slowly lowered himself in, his face unreadable.

"Get the lights, will you?" Steve asked, nestling into the comforters and mass of pillows.

Bucky hesitated, his metal hand forming a fist. The movement made the handcuff bend, distorting out of its normal shape.

The light switched out.

"Thanks, Buck," Steve murmured, and within seconds he was asleep.

***

As tired as he was, something woke Steve in the middle of the night. He leaned over to check the clock — 3:02am. He sighed and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling.

Bucky was muttering in his sleep in Russian. It must have been what woke him, Steve realized. He continued staring up at the pockmarks in the ceilings, the red rust stains from previous pipe leaks and dirty former tenants.

"Steve," Bucky murmured and he turned, but realized that the other man was still asleep.

Without waking, Bucky leaned over, ripping his shackle off the bed frame, to nestle against the side of Steve's body.

Steve didn't move a muscle, frozen, as Bucky wrapped himself around him.

"I think I'm getting used to it," Bucky murmured, his voice still thick with sleep. "There are benefits to you being so muscly..."

Gingerly, Steve reached out to stroke at Bucky's tangled hair. As he did so, the other man grew still. His breathing deepened and he relaxed against Steve's body.

"I miss you, Bucky," he whispered.

The sleepy response made him flinch: "Miss you too, Steve."

This movement of his human pillow woke him, and Bucky startled awake.

"Wassat?" he asked.

"You were... talking in your sleep," Steve said, as Bucky scrambled to distance himself.

"Keep your hands off of me," he snarled, rubbing at his shoulder as if to wipe off any trace of Steve's arm.

"You seemed upset," Steve explained. "I was trying to comfort you."

"I was dreaming," came the rough response. "Something I'd rather be doing right now."

Steve gave him a look, a knowing look, and both of them were suddenly painfully aware that Bucky had been dreaming of Steve.

"Alright," Steve said simply. "Good night."

He rolled over onto his side, his back to Bucky, and Bucky did the same. Staring off into the darkness, Steve realized: this may not be his friend. And if it wasn't Bucky Barnes, he was going to have to go through losing him all over again.

***

The next morning, Natasha walked in to find Bucky flipping an omelet.

She did a double take — Bucky, making breakfast. His empty chair. The neatly piled coils of rope, the handcuffs on top.

"Rogers!" she roared, turning to search for Steve.

He appeared from the other bedroom, dressed simply in jeans and an undershirt.

"Morning," he said, cheerful as ever.

"Explain," she growled.

"I'm making breakfast," Bucky smiled from the stove.

"I got it covered," Steve said. "Tracking anklet. Double-looked doors, and I have the key."

He pulled back his shirt to show the key dangling from a chain around his neck.

"Yeah, so he knows exactly where to find it after he murders us," Natasha growled.

"He won't," Steve said, his eyes wide. He looked so hopeful, Natasha almost didn't want to fight him on this. "I know he won't," he added, heading over to get some breakfast.

"Just don't eat anything he cooks for you," Natasha called, shaking her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for my Google translate Russian!


	4. Phone Calls

After breakfast, Natasha sent Steve to be debriefed by Fury.

"Go to the locker at Penn Station," she said. "I left the coordinates there."

Steve sighed, finding it ridiculous that she just couldn't tell him the cross streets, but he left without further complaint to give Fury the whole story – Muller, Bucky, and the details of the secret Hydra compound.

The apartment was quiet without him. 

Bucky sat on the couch, twiddling his thumbs. It made a weird noise, the metal whistling through the air.

"Any chance I'll get to go stretch my legs?" he asked.

Natasha didn't answer from her perch in the love seat where she was playing Flappy Bird. She punctuated the air with a few choice curse words, alternating English and Russian.

"Well?" he asked again.

Finally, she looked up at him.

"You realize it's going to kill him," she said, staring at him evenly. "When he realizes you aren't Bucky. When you explain to him that you're just another intelligence agent playing him."

"Who says he has to realize?" he replied, crossing his ankle over his knee, spreading out on the couch.

"You're the one who taught me about power positions, Winter Soldier," Nat said, mockingly. "I know this is making you uncomfortable. I understand that Hydra's paying you, but Steve's a good man."

"He's a great lover, too," Bucky added with a saucy wink.

"I wouldn't know," she said coldly.

"Is that what this is about?" he asked. "Feeling a little lonely, are we, Talia?"

Natasha sighed and picked up her phone. She hit a contact and let the phone dial.

"Hello?" a voice said.

"Hi, Clint," she said.

"Clint?" mouthed Bucky. "Sounds hot."

"Hey, Nat," Clint said over the phone, his voice formal. "How are you?"

"Feeling a little lonely, to be honest," she said, her voice dry. "Steve's off with Fury... and I'm just here all alone. Thinking about you."

There was a pause and Bucky gave her a look, his lips forming the words: "Good one."

"Really?" Clint chuckled. "Nat, I'm in the middle of an op."

"Tell me about it," she replied, her voice breathy. "All the details. I want to hear about ever tact team, every maneuver, every hit..." 

"Fuck," Clint breathed.

"How many men?" she pressed.

 "What are you wearing?" he asked, a question for a question.

In response, Nat walked over and straddled Bucky, placing a hand over his lips as warning, and then stripped off her shirt.

"Less and less every minute," she replied.

Clint groaned into his phone.

"Sometimes I hate you," he murmured.

"Are you hard?" she asked, smirking.

"Fuck, Nat, I really can't do this now."

She smirked and wiggled out of her pants, leaning in to Bucky — who answered her question in the affirmative by leaning his hips in towards her.

"C'mon, babe," she begged, unlatching her bra. Her breasts weren't bare for long — Bucky reached forward with both hands, the metal cold against her skin.

"I wish I were there," Clint breathed.

"Why?" she urged him.

"'Cause... 'cause I'd do that thing," Clint breathed. "Along your collarbone and then..."

Bucky gave Nat a sideways glance and then leaned in to follow Clint's instructions, his lips soft and gentle against her skin.

She made sure to keep both of them going, urging them on.

"Is that working for you?" Clint asked after a while. "Because... fuck, Nat, it's working for me."

"Is that all?" she panted.

"I miss you," Clint whined into the phone.

"What parts of me, in particular?" she asked.

As he listed them, Bucky made a point of kissing each surface and — when he gave a rather crude description of her butt, Bucky proceeded with his hands.

"Man, is he whipped," Bucky breathed in her ear.

"Shut up," she whispered back.

"What was that?" Clint asked.

"Nothing, babe," she panted back. "Keep going, Barton."

"Giving me orders now?" He sounded more annoyed than turned on, so she quickly adjusted, making a point of panting loudly into the phone.

When that didn't accomplish anything, she put on her best pout and added, "C'mon babe, I'm so wet for you."

"Uh-huh," Clint replied. He sighed. "You're with another man, aren't you?" he asked.

Natasha smiled broadly.

"But I'm thinking of you, promise," she simpered.

"What's his name?" Clint asked.

"James," Bucky said, chuckling a bit.

There was a pause, and then Clint cleared this throat.

 "Well, James, fuck my girl good, okay?" Clint said. And then: "I've gotta go take out six merks. And Nat, when I'm done, I'm finding a satcom with zero lag and we are doing this with visuals, am I clear."

Natasha grinned, feeling a thrill go through her body at the concept and at his take-charge attitude.

"Love you," Clint said, and she heard the twang of his bow as he notched an arrow.

"Love you too," Nat replied, leaning in to kiss Bucky deep on the mouth.

Clint heard and sighed into his mouthpiece, almost a growl.

"You give me reason to live, you know that?"

"I know," she replied.

"Fuck," he breathed. "I'm so hard — the men in my unit are going to think I have a thing for enemy operatives."

There was a pause, and he added: "And if you count Berlin, I guess I sort of do."

Natasha and Bucky heard another voice, shouting orders.

"My CO just called us to stand at attention for inspection. Thanks to you, I'm all good to go... well, until later..."

The line disconnected and Natasha grinned into Bucky's lips, allowing his arms to encircle her in an embrace.

***

They didn't bother moving to the bedroom but used the couch, the wall, knocking over a lamp and disconnecting the television in the process.

Bucky had her in a rather compromising position — up against the wall — when they finally broke the silence.

"So you did miss me," he said, a difficult phrase to get out as he was having trouble breathing.

She didn't respond but gripped him harder.

"God, Talia," he whimpered, burying his face in her chest. She could feel him shudder, the tremors along his body.

Suddenly he was lying on the ground and she was standing over him, a foot to his neck.

"Well this is new," he panted. "Not that I'm complaining, but I was so close to finishing..."

"You are going to take care of Rogers, you hear?" she ordered. "I don't care if you have to pretend that you are from the 40s and talk like a newsie, you're doing it."

Bucky rolled his eyes.

"If you don't let me finish, I'm just going to do it myself," he threatened, shifting so he could use his hands to that end.

Before he could, Natasha had him upright and caught in her thigh-hold, her knees crushing his windpipe.

And then he was back on the ground, landing with an undignified sound of his bare ass, his hands cuffed behind him.

He stared up at her murderously.

"That's torture," she said evenly, tracing a finger nail down his bare chest. "And I'm not stopping until I get what I want. Steve's the best operative we've had in a long time, and we need him to get things back on track at SHIELD. Things are bad, Yasha, real bad. We all need Captain America to save the day."

"If I say yes...?"

"You won't say anything," she said sharply. "You don't have a choice."

With that, she padded away to the bathroom. He heard the shower turn on, the water rushing.

***

When Steve exited Fury's safe house — a snazzy hotel by Central Park, all windows and shiny steel – he was surprised to see a familiar sleek black sports car with an equally familiar sleek redheaded driver.

"I thought you could use a ride," Natasha called from the driver's seat.

 Steve clambered into the passenger seat. Everything Natasha did was for a reason — he had learned that — so he wondered if he should just stay quiet and let her speak.

But she didn't, not for the first few blocks of NYC road, and the streets were running out.

"So you left him at home alone?" he asked.

"James?" she clarified. "No, I called in Wilson. He's probably boring him to death with his latest war stories. If the kid doesn't trip and fall on his face, he tells everyone about it."

Steve sighed.

"So..." he began. "You have a history with... James."

Natasha glanced over at him quickly as she swerved around a cab.

"Yes."

"A... sexual history," Steve said.

"Yes," she said again. "But it was only ever about sex."

"And still is?" Steve asked.

"What?"

Steve sighed. "Look, Nat, I may be a little innocent about all this, but I'm not an idiot."

Natasha nodded to herself.

"Yes," she allowed, "but it's only the physical stuff with him."

Steve sucked on his lips like a fish, thinking.

"Just don't lie to me, okay?" he said finally. "I know an 'interrogation technique' when I see one. I mean, he used it on me earlier."

At the red light, the car idled and Natasha looked over at him.

"Don't you realize?" she asked. "That's exactly why I used the same 'technique' on him, Steve. He revealed his hand... he's lonely."

"That's always the way it was with Bucky," Steve mused as the light changed and they rocketed forward. "Sometimes I was enough for him... but sometimes I wasn't."

"He always had girls like me?"

"Girls? Yes. But not like you," Steve said, smiling slightly. "Never like you."

That seemed to flatter Natasha; she almost smiled.

"So... get anything good out of him?" Steve asked as Natasha smoothly parallel parked in front of their new home, somehow finding a spot with her superspy powers.

"Huh?"

"With that 'interrogation technique,'" Steve said.

"Oh," she said, closing the door. "No."

Steve hesitated, and then followed her up the steps.

"Oh," he realized. "So, you weren't asking him anything. You were telling."

Natasha gave him a look as she opened the door to their complex.

Even though she didn't say anything, Steve knew what that look meant.

***

That evening, dinner went smoother, since Bucky could feed himself and didn't have to be spoon-fed like a toddler.

After dinner he even showered on his own. Steve found him on the bedroom floor, doing push-ups in his boxer-shorts.

"That necessary?" he asked. "Seeing as you have a metal arm and all."

"No excuse," wheezed Bucky. "Have to keep my one remaining gun in tip-top shape."

He stood and flexed to demonstrate.

"Very nice," Steve laughed.

Bucky switched to sit-ups.

"Enjoying the view?" he asked.

"As always," Steve smiled. "But I should get to bed. I have a busy day tomorrow."

"Ah," Bucky replied. "SHIELD stuff?"

"Yep. Top-secret spy stuff."

Bucky rolled himself up from the floor and climbed into bed, heading towards Steve on hands and knees.

"Orders from the new Director Pierce?" he asked, his hands sliding over Steve's bare thigh, under the boxer shorts.

Steve gave him a thin-lipped smile and replied, "Something like that."

Bucky smiled.

"So Fury is alive, then?" he asked, pulling the sheets over both of them.

"Good night, James," Steve said sadly, shutting off the light.

A click: the light switched on.

"Please," Bucky said, his face inscrutable. "Call me Bucky."

He leaned in to kiss Steve slowly, hesitantly, withdrawing only to slide his lips along Steve's jawline.

Steve pulled his face back so he could look into his eyes, searching Bucky's face.

His breath was ragged, and not just from the kiss, his bare chest rising and falling visibly.

"Please," Bucky repeated.

"Okay," Steve breathed, leaning in for another kiss. "Bucky."

In a flurry of bedclothes they were making out like teenagers, Steve gripping Bucky's hair and Bucky's real arm tracing lazy circles on every inch of Steve's bare skin.

"Are you remembering?" Steve asked.

"I've missed you," Bucky replied, silencing him with a strong kiss. "Now turn over... and you'll want to hang on to something."

Steve complied, reaching up for the bed frame and praying that it would hold, as Bucky smoothly removed the one layer of clothing between them.

Bucky's hands ruffled in his hair, and Steve felt warm lips at his ear.

"Don't bother trying to stay quiet," Bucky breathed. "I won't let you."


	5. Bird of Prey

Out in the living room, Natasha rolled her eyes and unpacked a pair of noise-canceling headphones. She then settled herself, cross-legged, on the couch and took out her phone.

The headphones worked so well she didn't hear when the door opened and didn't realize Falcon was standing in front of her until she saw a pair of boots intrude on her peripheral vision.

She tossed aside her Angry Birds and removed her headphones. Sam looked disturbed.

"What's happening in there?" he asked.

"They're fucking," she replied, matter-of-fact.

Sam's eyes widened.

"Ah," he said.

He sat across from her.

"How long has this been going on for?" he asked.

Natasha checked her phone for the time.

"A little over three hours," she said.

"Damn," Falcon said. "That super-soldier-serum really is something, huh?"

"Yes," she replied, rolling her eyes. "Because I'm sure SHIELD was more interested in creating a sort of Viagra than inventing a way to stop the Nazis."

"Well," Sam said with a broad smile, "that is one way to stop the Nazis."

When Natasha didn't respond he added, "Like with sex. I meant like he could've fucked the Nazis. It's funny, because Hitler was super-anti-gay and—"

"I got it, Sam," she cut in.

"Right."

They sat awkwardly, Sam crossing and re-crossing his legs as the moaning from the other room got louder.

"I should... I should go," he said.

"No," Natasha said. "If you needed to take a late-night trip here to see him, he'd want you to tell him..."

"Just checking in," Sam replied, grimacing as a rather loud yell cut their conversation. "Y'know," he began, a smile ghosting onto his face, "In college I learned that the only way to really deal with loud roommates is to give them a run for their money. Have a competition. So maybe you and I..."

He gestured between them with a finger and completed the implication with a wink.

"Not a chance in hell," she said, going back to her magazine.

"Alright," Sam replied.

"You could ask to join in, though," she offered.

Sam opened and closed his mouth, flinching as another groan came through the thin wall. She smirked to herself, proud that she had finally shut him up.

***

After another hour of waiting, Sam got up and walked to the bedroom door.

"I can't believe I'm doing this..." he muttered. And then he knocked, solidly, several times. There was no change in noise and he sighed to himself. "Okay," he muttered. "Wilson, you got this."

And then he swung the door open, using his other hand to shield his eyes.

"I'm not looking, I'm not looking," he said, blundering forward a bit. "I just wanted to check in with Cap. And make sure no one was dying in here."

He heard a chuckle and dared look through his fingers; both men were on the bed, a sheet draped haphazardly across them. There was a pair of boxer shorts on the lamp and the headboard was ripped in half.

"If you're looking for an invitation to join, you just have to ask," Bucky said with a smirk, his breathing hard.

"Told you so," Natasha called from the living room.

"Uh..." Sam said. "Not so much. I'm just here to talk with your um... companion."

Steve, who was grinning from ear to ear and breathing equally as hard as his "companion," tried to compose himself. But he didn't work to try to cover his bare chest.

"Nice pecs man... you work out?" Sam asked, filling the awkward silence with his babbling.

"I was just helping him 'work out,'" Bucky said with a wink.

Sam make a face.

"Alright," he said. "Well, Steve, if you want to... put pants on... I thought we could talk over an-early morning run. Since you used to like doing that when you were able to get out of bed..."

"I was just putting him through his paces," Bucky said, sliding a hand down Steve's chest. "And he's doing great..."

"Alright that's my cue," Sam said, slamming the door behind him.

He was almost to the kitchen door when Steve caught up to him, dressed in running gear and wearing a huge smile.

"Sorry about that, Sam," he said, good-naturedly. "We were just catching up."

"Sure you were," Sam said. "Well, if I ever fall out of touch with you... it's just because I want to be able to 'catch up' with you."

"Natasha, you okay with Bucky?" Steve asked.

Nat gave them the thumbs-up from the couch and they headed out.

"Why, is she your understudy?" Sam asked. "Your second? The next man up to bat... your substitute, your lieutenant commander..."

***

"So all I'm saying is," Sam said, panting from their three-mile jog, "You really should consider a threesome."

"I'll consider it," Steve said, smiling. "Anyone you had in mind?"

"What, me?" Sam asked. "No man, I don't swing that way. But if I did... it would be for you. You do look damn fine in the light of the sunrise, if I do say so."

 "Really?" Steve grinned.

"I mean, that's sort of a general consensus around SHIELD. Like ask anyone: who would you go gay for? Everyone will say Cap. It's the cheekbones. And the sculpted ass."

Steve laughed.

"Anyway," he said. "As much as I'm enjoying you discussing my body, was there something you wanted to discuss?"

"Oh, right," Sam said. "Sorry, I was just really distracted by all the sex... uhm... yeah, Fury wanted me to read you in. We're running an op at SHIELD. Checking out Director Pierece. He wants to makes sure he can count you in."

"Of course he can," Steve said. "I talked to him this morning."

"That's not what I meant," the Falcon replied. "He wants to make sure you're all-in. Not distracted by some brunette who gives good hand-jobs. Not doing the horizontal tango with an ex-Soviet operative. Not frick-fracking with a mercenary with a metal arm. Not—"

"I got it, Sam," Steve cut in. He sighed. "I know I've been a little MIA..."

"More like DTF," Sam muttered.

"... but I'm on board. I know this is important and it takes priority," Steve continued.

They jogged in silence for a while.

"So what's it like?" Sam asked after a pause.

"What?"

"Fucking another dude. Is it... good?"

Steve laughed.

"It's not really the sort of thing I can describe," he said. "Maybe you should try it sometime."

As they rounded a bend, Steve stopped.

"Hold on... I think I may have dropped my telephone," he said, feeling around in his pockets.

"Want to go back and look?" Sam asked.

"No," Steve replied. "It's okay. It's just one Agent Romanov got me for the weekend."

"Maybe you didn't leave the apartment with it," Sam offered. "You might have left it..."

"... with Bucky," Steve finished, his face blanching. "I have to get back."

He disappeared, running so fast he was a blur and literally left Sam in a cloud of dust.

"I hate when he does that," Sam muttered, taking out his phone. "Yeah, Agent Romanov? Your prisoner might have Cap's phone..."

After a moment of pacing, he realized he couldn't get back to the apartment and dialed another number, shrugging.

"Hey Coulson," he said, "Yeah, it's Wilson. I just wanted to let you know... you may have a chance with Cap. Dude definitely swings that way..."

He laughed into the phone.

"Now Phil," he added with a chuckle, "pictures'll cost you extra..."

***

Natasha threw open the door.

"Where is it?" she demanded.

"What?" Bucky asked innocently, pulling a shirt over his head.

"Don't play coy with me," she said, shoving him against a wall.

Bucky smirked at her and removed the flip-phone from his pocket.

He opened it and closed it so it displayed the time on its outer face.

"7:35am," he said, smiling again. "Just another three minutes and you'll have something else to worry about."

She smacked him, hard, across the mouth.

He laughed, wiping away the blood.

"Hit me all you want, Natalia," he said. "That won't stop them."

A crash at the door drew both their gaze and a sweaty Steve barreled into the room.

"Did you get it back?" he asked.

Nat opened the phone and checked the call log, the text messages. Sure enough, they were wiped clean.

"It's too late. We have to move," she said.

As they reached the door, a blinding flash and a cloud of smoke enveloped them. Smoke grenade, standard issue. Steve recognized the noise of Hydra technology.

"I may have miscounted," Bucky called from where he was lounging comfortably on the bed, his t-shirt over his nose and mouth. "Oops."

The windows shattered as Hydra agents, rappelling on cables, came crashing through the windows. Steve and Natasha hurried to assume fighting positions, but both were coughing from the smoke and didn't have the benefit of breathing apparatuses like the enemy operatives did.

Eyes burning, Steve tried to focus on the four agents coming his way — but then he realized that Nat must be worse off, her body less able to heal, and he turned to try to protect her and the other group of agents coming after her.

And then Muller was there, striding through the breached front door with more agents: Muller, the man who had taken his finger. Steve felt a shiver along his spine. He was only wearing a simple breathing mask, so Steve could see as his eyes crinkled with a smile at the shiver he had inspired. The man tossed something over his head — a black mask for Bucky. But Steve couldn't look away, not as Muller motioned so that the agents with him all trained their machine guns on Steve.

As he froze, Natasha was already shooting off rounds, propelling herself around the room to take down agents. But they were outgunned and they both knew it. Hydra, as always, with their huge numbers. Natasha took down one agent and two more took his place. Steve was dodging gunfire, but without his shield he wasn't successful. He took down a few agents, his muscles working without thought: punches, blocks, throwing them aside bodily. But still the bullets rained on him and he fought the men and the guns. His body would heal, he knew that, but too slowly, and from the pain in his right leg he knew that running was no longer an option.

"James," Muller called. And Steve felt the metal arm around his throat. He choked, trying to struggle. But the metal arm was more than super-humanly strong, and he could hardly breathe.

It grew quiet as the gunfire subsided.

"We're so glad we found you," Muller continued evenly.

"I've got intel on Nick Fury," Bucky said, still holding Steve down. "And I can get more."

"That won't be necessary."

"Sir?"

"We wanted you back, James. The Captain... well, he's served his purpose."

As the smoke cleared, Steve could see Natasha in a corner, pinned down by five men. She was standing over six others, but they had shot her with some sort of taser-gun and he could hear her yelling as the electricity surged through her body.

Muller gestured with two fingers, beckoning over an agent.

"Clean up here, Graham."

There was a loud crash; an agent hit Natasha in the head with the butt of his gun and Steve heard the sickening crunch of her head hitting the wall. She flopped to the ground, and whether she was dead on unconscious Steve couldn't tell.

He couldn't turn enough to see; Bucky still held his throat.

The agent, Graham, neared him.

"You can let go, James," Muller said. "Graham will take care of him."

Steve gasped for breath, falling forward onto all fours, when Graham grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him upright.

Bucky turned to get one last glance at Steve.

"Are we taking him back into custody? I can continue the—"

His eyes on Steve, Bucky froze. This was the only warning Steve had before he felt the white-hot pain of a dagger being plunged between his shoulder blades. He looked down to see the tip piercing through the edge of his shirt.

"Like I said," Muller said calmly, "He's served his purpose."

But Steve wasn't ready to give up, not as the air left his lungs and the red seeped across his shirt. His brain frantically worked, trying to problem solve. Training. He had trained for this. List assets. Establish a viable escape route. Minimize casualties. That is to say: survive.

The first thing Steve realized was that he couldn't feel his legs. So the blade had bisected his spinal cord. That was problematic.

The next thing he realized was that his heart was thumping irregularly. Perforated ventricle? Punctured aorta? His head was already fuzzy from oxygen deprivation and he didn't have all the variables. His own mind, dying slowly as it fought to fix things.

The red mingling with his white shirt was oddly familiar; the red and white strips. The star-spangled man with a plan. The tune played in his head. He didn't have a plan. He didn't even know what was wrong with him.

He just knew he was lying face down, and he could feel the sickening sensation of his own blood soaking his shirt, spreading out in a puddle to his face. He breathed it in, the sticky-salty puddle.

And he felt cold.

Part of him knew it was shock, but as his arms began trembling, he pitifully realized: I don't want to die this way. I don't want to die feeling cold.

"What the hell are you doing?" Bucky was yelling. He struggled against Muller's protective hand, shoving the man into a wall as if forgetting his super-human strength.

He marched over to Graham and Steve heard a sickening crunch of bone as Bucky snapped his spine with a single blow.

The agents who had been subduing Natasha turned at the unexpected attack and Steve heard them firing their guns. Shooting at Bucky.

But Bucky was a blur, running at them fueled by unexplainable rage. As Steve choked on his onw blood on the floor, he could see Bucky, a force of nature, punching and pushing his way through the men. They crumbled before him, a stack of bodies building on the floor.

And then silence.

"Oh, God, Steve," Bucky whispered.

"Wh-" Steve tried to choke out, but words were failing him. Bucky had him cradled in his arms, holding him somewhat upright. Were there tears in his eyes?

"I don't know, I don't know why I did that," Bucky sobbed. His metal arm was twitching; broken or malfunctioning? Steve couldn't think straight. "Please don't die, Steve, please," Bucky begged, now openly sobbing. "I... I don't know why I did that... I had to... I had to save you."

"Ta-" Steve tried to say her name, to look over, but he couldn't.

Bucky looked over but then quickly back to Steve.

"Stay with me," he begged.

"Cold" was all Steve could say. And then a full sentence: "I'm cold."

His teeth were chattering.

Bucky removed his jacket — he too was shaking, but not with the cold — and wrapped Steve in it. 

"Stay with me, Steve," he whimpered, clutching at his jaw. Steve couldn't feel it, couldn't feel anything. He just felt cold.

"Cold," he said again. "So cold."

Bucky's face seemed to crumble and his mouth opened, but Steve couldn't hear the sob. He couldn't hear anything.

And suddenly, he didn't feel cold anymore. And then it was dark.


	6. Endings

The noise was annoying. A beeping noise. A steady beeping noise. Steve was tired, so tired, but he just wanted the noise to stop.

Finally he took a deep breath and prepared to say something, but he couldn't. There was something in his throat. His eyes flew open and he began to gag, reaching with his hands to try to remove whatever is was that was jammed down his throat.

"He's awake," he heard someone say. "We need to remove the trach."

A doctor hurriedly began pulling at the tubing, which continued for what seemed like forever, scraping at the inside of his throat.

When it was finally gone, it felt like it was still there and he wheezed.

Immediately there was a penlight in his eye.

"What do you remember?" he asked.

Steve opened his mouth to respond, but he realized that the light at his eye was shaking; the doctor was shuddering. Sweat dripped along his brow; his scrubs were dirty.

"What's going on here?" he wheezed.

A gun appeared, pressing into the back of the doctor's head.

"Keep working," Steve heard Bucky growl. "You are going to fix him."

"He's awake," the doctor replied, now shaking even harder. "Please... just let me go..."

"Bucky?" Steve asked tiredly. "What are you doing?"

"Fix him," Bucky groaned.

Shaking his head to clear the sleepiness, Steve sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He stood, tottering a bit, but his legs felt stronger every second.

"I'm fine, Buck, just let him go..."

"That's impossible," the doctor breathed. "You should be–"

Bucky pistol-whipped him.

"Then we don't need you anymore," he said. He looked a bit embarrassed, though, and tucked his gun back in the waistband of his pants. "I'm glad you're better," he said gruffly.

"You took a doctor hostage??" Steve asked, still trying to get his bearings — and catch his breath.

"Actually..." Bucky looked really guilty now. "The whole hospital..."

"Motherfucker," Steve breathed. He clapped a hand to his mouth. "Sorry, I just... Bucky, you can't do that!"

"You were hurt," Bucky said by way of explanation, crossing his arms defensively. "And Nat's in the other room."

"Show me," Steve ordered.

***

Another two days passed and still Natasha wasn't awake.

"She has serious increased intracranial pressure," a doctor told him. She was much calmer now that Bucky had stopped waving around guns, but she still shot a few distrusting glances at him. He had retreated to the corner and sat, fiddling with his metal arm.

"But she'll be alright?" Steve had asked.

"Only time will tell. We still don't fully understand the brain... There's nothing we can do. She just has to wake up. "

They sat by her bedside, watching her as if their presence could bring her back.

"So this is what it was like," Steve mused, breaking a long silence.

"Huh?" Bucky asked.

"I slept for seventy years. I heard that people watched me sleep... I guess this is what it was like."

Bucky stepped up behind him, wrapping his arms around Steve in a hug.

"You always know, huh," Steve mused.

"Know what?" Bucky asked, not looking away from Natasha.

"When..." Steve suddenly felt shy. "Sometimes I feel cold when I remember. Being frozen in the ice, and all. And... it's nice."

"Are you saying I'm hot?" Bucky drawled, kissing the side of his head.

Steve laughed quietly. "I guess."

But something made Bucky also feel a chill.

"What was it like?" he asked — some perverse impulse making him ask.

"Falling... it was terrible," Steve admitted. "And then the cold. Landing, and feeling the cold just sort of... taking me. And worrying — knowing — that it would never let me go."

Bucky shuddered. For some reason, he was able to picture that perfectly.

"Guess you have a hard time with trains now," he mused.

"Planes," Steve corrected him.

"Oh," Bucky murmured. He didn't know why he had said that. "Right."

A doctor came in to check on Natasha, shooting them a sideways glance. They did look rather homosexual, Steve mused. He smiled to himself and leaned back into Bucky's embrace.

Steve sighed and stepped outside to let the doctor work in peace; Bucky followed him.

"You know, I really thought you were him," he sighed, helping himself to another glass of the terrible coffee in the hall.

"Who?"

"Bucky Barnes," Steve replied. "My friend from before..."

Bucky bristled.

"But he was..." Steve laughed sadly, "...a stupidly loyal son of a bitch. He did his work but... he never liked..."

"Killing," Bucky finished, his eyes growing cold. "And meanwhile, I'm a heartless assassin."

"That's not what I meant," Steve replied.

They stood in silence.

"Is James your real name?" Steve asked.

He looked up.

"No, of course not," he said. "An alias. I've had many over the years."

"Would it be alright... if I called you Bucky?" Steve tried. "It's just..." he stared at him, his eyes distant. "I'm always going to see him when I look at you."

The other man nodded slowly.

"Sure," he said.

"I know it's a little morbid, taking on the name of a dead man..."

"How did he die?" Bucky found himself asking.

  "Fell out of a train. In the Alps. It was... terrible."

Steve looked away, so he didn't see the way that Bucky shuddered at the words.

***

On the sixth day, right when they were about to give up hope, Natasha stirred.

She looked at them.

"Thank God," she muttered.  

"What?" Steve asked. "You okay?"

"I'm just glad you two have your clothes on," she replied. "It's a rare moment. I must have had good timing."

They all laughed at that, Steve mostly relieved. Natasha was back, and she was just as sassy as ever.

"So what's the play?" she asked, as the nurses and doctors swarmed around her to check her vitals and mess with her IV's.

"We're going back to HQ," Bucky said. "I have unfinished business with Muller."   
Both Steve and Natasha looked at him in surprise.

"He has my file," Bucky explained. "And I'd like it back."

***

Natasha's sleek sports car got them as far as the shoreline, where an irate Falcon touched down in another commandeered SHIELD aircraft.

"I cannot believe you guys didn't make contact for six days," he ranted as he drove them. "Wait, no, I can, because you two have no respect for protocol and there I was, trapped with Nick Fury in his little, itty-bitty apartment, bringing him frozen daiquiris and trying to recite the codebook, thinking both of you guys were dead..."

"Is he always like this?" Bucky asked.

Steve laughed.

"You should hear him after a mission," Natasha griped. "You'll get a play-by-play. Even if you were there."

"Looking forward to it," Bucky said grimly.

"You can stop here," Steve said, putting a hand on Sam's shoulder to silence his chatter and stop his horrible piloting.

The three of them attached harnesses and prepared to drop onto the roof of the base.

"Where's mine?" Sam asked.

Natasha looked at him evenly.

"Oh, hell no," Sam replied. "My older brother pulled enough of this shit. I am not waiting in the car!"

"Wait in the car, Sam," Natasha ordered. "And act as lookout."

Sam grumbled to himself, resuming his post at the pilot's seat.

"Wish us luck," Bucky called.

"Yeah, yeah," Sam muttered, flapping his hand at them. "Get gone already."

They laughed as they sped down to the roof.

"How did you two meet?" Bucky asked as Natasha got to work unlatching a vent.

"SHIELD assigned him," Steve replied.

"Ah, so Nick Fury must be a great matchmaker in addition to being a super-spy," Bucky mused.

"Jealous, Barnes?" Steve asked.

Bucky shrugged, jumping down the air shaft.

Before Steve could go, Natasha pressed a hand to his chest.

"Steve, you have to promise me that whatever we find in there, if things go sideways, you'll get yourself out, you hear? SHIELD needs you. You can't save America if you're dead."

"He's my friend," he said, but as the words left his mouth, he realized what was wrong. "Look, I failed him once. Or... his twin. Or something. I can't fail him again."

"Don't go thinking you can fix things with Bucky by saving James," she warned. "It's dangerous to live life for the dead."

"Tell me about it," Steve muttered. He followed Bucky, landing almost noiselessly.

The three of them assembled in a hallway which was suspiciously empty of guards.

"So, Bucky?" he asked.

Bucky took a step forwards.

"Something's off," he said.

Suddenly, a gate flew up between them, separating Natasha and Steve from Bucky.

Steve lifted his shield in an attempt to break the barrier, but it wasn't solid.

 "It's pure energy," Bucky called. "We can't get through. We'll have to find a way around. Find those doors, and turn right, okay?"

"You stay there!" Steve called back, turning to leave. "And don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

"How can I?" Bucky called back. "You're taking all the stupid with you!" 

Steve froze, turning back slowly.

"What did you..."

"C'mon," Natasha yelled, pulling him along.

***

When they met up with Bucky, they continued along the empty corridors.

"Where is everyone?" Steve asked.

"Is this some sort of trap?" Bucky wondered.

"Shut up and keep moving," Natasha ordered. "We can't deal with problems until they happen, so there's no reason looking for them."

Bucky shrugged and the continued at a light jog through the maze of hallways, Bucky calling out directions at the intersections.

"Did you read my file?" Steve asked.

"Your file?" Bucky repeated.

"I need to know how you know all this. The little things I used to say to the real Bucky. The comments. The way that he would kiss me. You learned them. Interrogation techniques."

They were passing by elaborate machinery now, laboratories, weapons testing. All empty, all silent.

"I didn't," Bucky said.

"Look, Nat told me about your little game. And you had me stabbed in the back — literally. I just need to know," Steve replied. "I can't keep living this sort of... fantasy."

"Uh, boys?" Natasha called. "A little help?"

They came running and saw her trying to hack into a locked room.

"Step aside," Bucky said, smashing the steel door with his metal arm and then prying it open like it was a tuna fish can.

And then they were in: rows and rows of files. A huge library, with endless boxes.

Bucky went straight for the w's and returned with a box labeled, "Winter Soldier."

Natasha thunked down her own binder: "Yasha."

And finally, Steve joined them, carrying close to his chest a narrow file that read, "James Buchanan Barnes."

Bucky reached slowly for Steve's file, his hand shaking.

"Are you sure...?" Steve asked, stepping back.

"I need to know," he replied, looking up at Steve earnestly.

Slowly, he opened the file, his eyes scanning the pages with surprising rapidness.

"Glad to have you back, Sergeant Barnes," came a voice.

They both turned: Director Fury, all eye-patch and leather coat and smug expression strode into the room.

"I hope you appreciated that we cleared the facility for you," he said. "Although I am sorry about that one security gate. There's always one thing my agents get wrong... especially now that we're working with limited personnel."

Bucky was still staring at the file, speechless.

"Director Fury..." Steve said. "I'm sorry I didn't—"

The director cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"Don't worry, Cap," he said. "You've done a lot for us, and it's about time SHIELD did something for you."

"Oh," Sam cut in, jumping ahead of the line of SHIELD agents. "I think Cap would prefer to 'do' him, if you know what I mean."  
'  
He broke off and raised a hand.

"C'mon, high-five, that was a good one. Do him." He chuckled to himself, but all the SHIELD agents remained impassive. "C'mon, son," Sam whined.

"I don't remember this," Bucky said hollowly. "Brooklyn, 1940s, a dog named Ralph..."

"We both know that isn't quite true," Director Fury replied, cocking his head to the side.

Bucky looked back at Steve, and Steve was surprised to see that his eyes were filling with tears.

"This isn't me," he repeated. "I'm not this 'Bucky' — I can't be then I'd be..."

"Over ninety years old," Director Fury supplied. "And you look good for it, Sergeant."

"Bucky," Steve said softly, stepping forward. Before he could react, Bucky reached out and gripped the front of his chest, raising an arm to strike him across the face.

But Steve didn't flinch.

"I'm not," he whispered again. "There's no way. I'm not."

Steve didn't move.

"It's possible," Natasha cut in. "When I knew you back in Russia... you had no memory of your past. Of your childhood. There's no reason you can't be Sergeant Barnes."

"I'm not," he snarled, turning to her, his metal arm still raised to strike Steve.

And before he could think better, Steve leaned forward and kissed him, tenderly, on the lips.

There was a slight murmur in the ranks of the agents.

"Captain America is gay?" one of them whispered too-loudly.

And then the whispered response: "Someone tell Coulson."

Light laughter broke out; someone applauded.

But Steve didn't care.

He drew back and gave Bucky a tender glance, his eyebrows peaking.

"Okay?" he asked.

"Well you certainly are a pistol, Steve," he murmured.

Steve made a noise, somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

"That's what you said..." he choked out. "When I first kissed you in that diner..."

"Shut up, Rogers," Bucky growled. He grabbed at Steve's neck, pressing him back for another kiss.

The second time they drew back, Bucky shot a disapproving glance at the agents.

"How long are they going to stand here for?" he asked.

"I don't know," Steve replied, grinning despite the dampness in his eyes. He hadn't even realized they were there. He couldn't take his eyes off Bucky.

"Do they want a free show or something?" Bucky growled.

"Maybe we should go somewhere else..."

"I'll get the van," Natasha offered.

The three of them headed off, Steve and Bucky even having the nerve to hold hands.

***

The bench by the reflecting pool was just big enough for the three of them, and Natasha was completely unbothered when they started making out.

The noise of a helicopter made them break apart, and a form in black SHIELD gear came running at them.

"Hey, Clint," Natasha called, waving him over.

But he didn't stop at her side of the bench, continuing over to Bucky's side, where he used his momentum to punch him square in the jaw.

Bucky lolled back a bit, laughing at the hit.

"I'm sorry," he said good-naturedly, "do I know you?"

"I asked one thing," Clint said, between heavy breaths. "I told you to fuck her good. You did not. You fucked her bad. You fucked up. So I fucked up your face."

"Cli-int," Natasha whined. "Stop fucking with Bucky and come over here and fuck with your girl."

Clint straightened his shirt and gave Bucky another glare.

"Alright," he said finally. And then he leaned in towards Bucky: "You'd better be glad that she's the hottest human being on the planet because that is literally the only thing stopping me from wiping that smug smile off your face."

"Clint," Steve cut in.

"Nice to see you, Rogers," Clint said quickly.

"Clint," Steve said again. He held up his hand — and Bucky's, which was intertwined.

Clint took a step back.

"Oh," he said.

He registered the way that Steve replaced their linked hands on Bucky's thigh, the way Steve's thumb rubbed there.

"Oh," he said again.

"Yeah," Bucky replied. "Sorry man."

"C'mere, you idiot," Natasha called.

The two of them disappeared down the path, Clint still turning around occasionally to stare at the new couple in disbelief.

"So," Steve sighed, staring off at the water.

  "So," Bucky echoed.

"You thought you were Russian, huh?" Steve asked.

"Yep," he replied. "Pretty much. Forgot English for a while. That was... yep, that was pretty weird."

"During the Cold War," Steve supplied.

"Yep."

Steve snickered.

"What is it?" Bucky asked.

"It's just... I was frozen in ice, you were in Siberia. We have a problem with the cold."

"Well then, let's keep things warm," Bucky replied, sliding a hand down Steve's chest.

"Not a fan of Cold Wars, huh?"

"Not a fan of icebergs?"

"Touché," Steve replied, laughing. "Well, Bucky, you really do make me feel warm and fuzzy inside."

"Ugh," Bucky complained. "That is so sappy I might ralph all over you, just like you did that one time at Coney Island..."

"Hey," Steve complained, still smiling. "I'm just saying, for the first time since I defrosted, I finally feel warm."

Bucky smiled, and the smile finally touched his eyes.

"I know," he admitted. "It's almost like we're thawing for each other."

He leaned back into Steve's chest, allowing him to wrap an arm over his shoulders like teenagers at a movie.

"But," Bucky said suddenly, a thought occurring to him. "Can you please call me the Winter Soldier in bed?"

Steve laughed. "Why's that?"

"I just think it would sound cool. Y'know?" He put on a deep voice: "Winter is coming."

Even across the reflecting pool in their SHIELD van, the surveillance team could hear them laughing.

After a moment the door slid open.

"Agent Wilson," came Coulson's clipped voice. "I have a check for you."

Sam smiled and took the folded paper.

"Thank you sir," he said, standing to leave. "The seat's yours."

Coulson slid into the chair, smiling to himself as he adjusted his binoculars.

"Why hello there, Tall Dark and Handsome," he murmured. "Missing his left arm, but I'd say that's pretty damn near mint condition, wouldn't you?"  
 "Of course, Coulson," Sitwell replied, tweaking his binoculars as well. "I would say the Sergeant is perfectly all right."

*THE END.*


End file.
